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Thursday, March 05, 2009

12 hours of fun

The 2009 Iditarod Trail Invitational did not exactly go well for me, but it was amazingly fun while it lasted. The fun and almost relaxed nature of those 57 miles into Yentna Station came as a surprise after the general gloom that hung over me all day Saturday. Thick flakes of snow fell on Southcentral Alaska for most of the afternoon, accumulating by the inch and promising to obliterate any sign of the trail out of Knik. My cold had flared up again, compounded by anxiety and, much to my annoyance about the timing, cramps. I was nauseated and on the verge of vomiting for most of the afternoon, chugging Alka Seltzer out of a water bottle and catching little cat naps as we drove around to pick up our last "Oh, I forgot this" items and watch our friend and her band play at a Fur Rondie gig. To make matters worse, Geoff had caught my cold and was plunged into the worst of it. As we crawled up the Glenn Highway in the fresh snow, passing at least 30 buried and upside-down vehicles that had careened off the road in the storm, Geoff said, "So this is what impending doom feels like."

I took a sleeping pill and passed out for nine solid hours. And then, just like the calm center of a swirling storm, Sunday morning arrived. I woke up to clear, beautiful skies and a renewed sense of peace. My strength had returned and my nauseated anxiety had converted to almost overwhelming excitement. I felt like a harnessed sled dog as I arrived at the race start in Knik, nipping excitedly at the cold air and shaking with the desire to run, run, run. We purposely arrived just minutes before the start to avoid that last-minute anxiety, but as I unloaded my bike and wheeled it to the starting line, I felt confident. "I can do this," I thought. "This is my year."

The minute Kathi yelled "Go," most of the cyclists were off their bikes and pushing across the fresh drifted snow over Knik Lake. Ten inches of fresh powder promised at best slow riding conditions, at worst an indefinite amount of pushing. But I started the race expecting it. I knew if I had to push my bike all the way to Skwentna, it would take me at least two days to get there. "But that's OK," I thought. "I have all the time in the world."

Luckily, enough snowmobiles and been through that the trail had set up nicely as soon as we left Knik Lake. It took a while to pass all of the runners and skiers that had gotten ahead of me. The last skier I passed was Pete Basinger, a veteran Iditarod cyclist who decided to try to mix it up this year by skiing all the way to Nome. "Hey, Pete, thanks for fixing my bike. It feels awesome," I said to him as I passed him. "Can I borrow it?" he replied with a laugh. (Skiing is much more physical work than biking this trail, even in marginal conditions, so I'm hugely impressed with what Pete is trying to do this year.)

I joined a pace line with several other cyclists - a few Europeans, Anchorage rookie Sean Grady on "skinny" wheels and Catherine Shenk, a rookie from Colorado. Catherine and I hit it off immediately. I was excited to ride with other women in the race, and Catherine was excited to be riding her bike in Alaska. "This place is unreal," she said as we traversed the rolling hills and crossed the Little Susitna River. "Isn't it?" I said. Catherine and I seemed to be comfortable riding a similar pace and I thought we might make good companions for the duration of the race.

The wind picked up and our pack broke up as we hit more open and drifted areas that required us to get off our bikes and push. I noticed I was a little bit faster of a "pusher" than the people I had been riding with, and also seemed to be able to ride more of the marginal sections of trail (maybe because I was willing to run my tire pressure lower than some of the rookies, but that's just a theory I have about it.) Anyway, I soon broke out in front of the pack, somewhere ahead of the main group but behind the dozen race leaders who took the legal shortcut. For a long time I just shadowed skier Cory Smith, who was cruising across the drifting snow like it was groomed trail. As we dropped onto the slough before Flathorn Lake, I landed in shin-deep drifted snow and had no choice but to push. Cory shot out ahead of me, and I was alone.

I don't have a great memory of those last miles before I fell into the water. After sunset, it was still light enough to travel without a headlight, but the light was flat enough that it was difficult to tell a steep berm from a little bump, a ski track from a trench. I remember I was looking out across the lake a lot and not always looking down at my path, because there wasn't much of a path to follow. The wind was blowing so hard that snow drifted in tracks as soon as they were made, and I could hardly see the tire marks and footprints of the people who had moved through just minutes before. But it was clear enough that I could see exactly where I needed to go, so I just pointed my bike and walked toward the horizon. It was there, trudging slowly and focusing only on the distant shoreline, that I dropped my bike and one leg into a thinly-frozen crack at a weak point where a stream came into the lake.

After that, huge amounts of adrenaline kicked in and I moved with strength, excitement and purpose the next 30 miles to the Yentna checkpoint. I explained my decision-making process in my last post, but my physical state after I dunked my leg was nothing short of strong and healthy. The going was still slow with lots of pushing, low-pressure pedaling over lightly packed powder, and jogging in an effort to keep my foot warm. It took me seven hours to cover that distance, including a short stop to help out a fellow racer who had lost his pump, but I never once felt cold or uncomfortable. I thought I was OK at the time because I never felt my foot becoming cold, let alone freezing. This was probably because my foot was instantly numbed in the initial submersion, but I assumed it was because I was doing well to keep my foot warm. It turns out I was wrong about that, but in many ways I don't necessarily regret my decision to try to get to the first checkpoint. As soon as dunked my leg, none of my options were great. If I had stopped immediately on the lake to take off my boot, I would have halted my progress right there and become entirely dependent on rescue. In the time it took another racer to find me and send someone back to help me, I may have struggled with hypothermia or something more serious than frostbitten toes. Another option that seems appropriate in hindsight would have been to walk backward down the trail toward one of the unoccupied cabins on the lake. Breaking into a cabin to attend to a life-threatening situation is certainly acceptable in the harsh Alaska backcountry, but the fact is, it's private property and difficult to assess whether a situation is really life-threatening. It's also a controversial and discouraged practice with ITI travelers, who are supposed to be geared up to be self-sufficient.

Either way, what's done is done, and I know it's silly to feel sorry for myself. I was lucky in my situation. I initially thought I stepped into overflow, but in further discussing it with others who remembered that exact spot and realizing that my foot never hit bottom, I know that what I fell into was the deep, dark lake. I am extremely lucky that only my right leg went in and not my whole body, or even worse, my whole body and my bike with all of my survival gear attached to it. Taking a swim in subzero temperatures with 20 mph winds becomes life-threatening within minutes, whether or not you can pull yourself out of the water.

This race is hard. It is truly, for almost everyone who participates, more of an adventure than a race, more about survival and strength than speed. As I write this, those competitors still in the race are held up just below Rainy Pass, waiting for trailbreakers to forge a trail in the deep snow as a major storm moves toward the Alaska Range. This is shaping out to be a hard, hard year for the Iditarod Trail Invitational, and it will be interesting to see in the next few days who - if anyone - makes it to McGrath. I wish the best for the racers still out there. They have my deepest respect. I wanted to thank everyone who commented on my last post with words of encouragement, especially to the man who is recovering from much more serious frostbite down in Salt Lake City. I'm going to take care of my toes the best I can, I'm going to heal and be fine, and I don't for a second regret giving this race another try. I don't want to ever become the kind of person who doesn't dare to fail and fail spectacularly. I don't ever want to be unwilling to approach the unknown. I don't ever want to live a life free of risk.

28 comments:

"So what happened? Well, as is usually the case with bad judgement, I was feeling awesome."

Very funny writer. I can relate.I really enjoy your writing style, your adventurous spirit and your humorous, self deprecating outlook on life. I am sorry to see you and geoff both have scratched. ;(

I received your book and read it in one (long, rainy, cold) day. What a great story and uplifting prose. I highly reccommend it, people!!

I am still rereading my favorite parts: your resignation to live on a diet of candy, your descriptions of "the journey" "the trail"and "cycling' with deep revelations on "life' and "truth" held within. I especially enjoyed the way the story flipped between the race, and experiences in nature and on the bike, from your past. The hair raising tale of your hike up the box canyon made me squirm. Yikes woman! You have been through so much.

You are an inspiration. I wish you fast healing and more adventures, risks taken, and enjoyed. xxoo Jj

I'm not a biker, not really even an athlete, - hell, until just about two weeks ago when i stumbled on your blog i didn't even know people mountain biked in the snow at all - but i just have to say your words throw out the most amazing amount of inspiration and just general positive energy! Your optimism is both addicting and infectious. thank you!

I was sooo rooting for you. I'm sorry it didn't work out this year, but I'm glad your injuries aren't worse. Not that they aren't bad. Who knew frozen toes would look like they'd been deep fried? Hope you recover quickly.

1. I wonder if they'd allow you in the race with pontoons or outriggers on your bike ?.

2. If you HAD drowned I wonder if they'd be nice enough to rename the lake after you....Homer Lake ?.

I can see it now, you could have been your own ghost story. Legend has it that once a year the ghost of a young mountainbiker named Jill appears riding on the frozen tundra, then vanishes over the lake. You could have become an Alaskan urban legend, and it would have tied nicely into the Ghost Trails title of your book. Probably would have sold a whole bunch more of your book, and the autographed copies already sold would have become collectors items. They might have even started a Jill Homer Foundation from the proceeds of your book sales.

1. I wonder if they'd allow you in the race with pontoons or outriggers on your bike ?.

2. If you HAD drowned I wonder if they'd be nice enough to rename the lake after you....Homer Lake ?.

I can see it now, you could have been your own ghost story. Legend has it that once a year the ghost of a young mountainbiker named Jill appears riding on the frozen tundra, then vanishes over the lake. You could have become an Alaskan urban legend, and it would have tied nicely into the Ghost Trails title of your book. Probably would have sold a whole bunch more of your book, and the autographed copies already sold would have become collectors items. They might have even started a Jill Homer Foundation from the proceeds of your book sales.

that previous anonymous commenter has been making similar rude comments for the better part of a year now. don't bother baiting him/her cause that seems to be about all they're looking for is to ruffle some feathers as if, as you said, jill's life is some kind of game or tv show.

Jill, I've just caught up on your Iditasport adventures. Sorry to hear it didn't all go to plan, but that's why they call it adventure. Keep it up. If it doesn't kill you it makes you stronger. More experience for the "experience bank". Keep on truckin'. Cheers, Russ.

In a way this year's race outcome was almost preordained. She's already finished the race once before on her first try, so the only thing left to do was either win overall, or drop out of the race in a dramatic fashion. Just finishing the race again wouldn't have made a good story, unless she'd been chased by a pack of wolves along the way or stuck in really horrible weather, because she's already done it. This year's race was the sequel to last year's, and the sequel always has to be different in order to keep the readers interested, in writing terms at least.

Part 3 (the third time she enters the race) will be even more interesting because she will have to overcome the effects of frostbite in order to compete, and everybody will be watching to see if it effects her training. Not only that, but dropping out this year means she might not finish the race again, so it will be an emotional victory even if she only manages to finish the 3rd time she tries. If she tries a 3rd time and finishes she'll be a hero for overcoming what transpired this year, and all that stuff about getting right back on the horse that threw you.

Jill..take care of the toes...I was heartbroken to hear of your DNF, and belive that no matter what others say, YOU will be the harshest critic of not finishing this year. (I DNF'd a MTB race once...it still haunts me, even though I totally made the right decision to stop...I was on the verge of heat-stroke). Todays post is much more upbeat than yesterdays...and I still maintain that what you do (and what you ATTEMPT to do) is still beyond what most of us can possibly fathom. If you had fallen completly thru into the lake (vice just a foot) I don't believe you would have survived that. The risk you take just to enter the ITI is phenomenal. As are the rewards, not only for finishing but just for toeing up to the start line and pedaling away. Keep up the great posts for us to live vicariously through your exploits. Be safe and warm up there! (and I anxiously await your NEXT book!)Matt

So sorry that you didn't get to finish, but I'm glad you get to keep your toes!

I'm a big hand built bicycle fan, and I saw this in Cyclingnews.com's gallery from the NAHBS. http://www.cyclingnews.com/tech/2009/shows/nahmbs09/?id=/photos/2009/tech/shows/nahmbs09/nahmbs096/Vicious_snow. It's like Pugsley's older, classier brother.

Something else that could have brought a nice level of drama and excitement to jill's story would have been if you were out there with her on the lake and instead of her stepping into the water she pushed you into the water and continued on her way to the finish.